


Not-So-Lucky Shot

by TheIcyQueen



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Gen, Pre-Kingdom Hearts 358/2 Days, Pre-Kingdom Hearts II, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 12:51:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17662988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIcyQueen/pseuds/TheIcyQueen
Summary: This wasn't EXACTLY what he pictured when he imagined an afterlife. It was too dark, too cold...and why was he getting SHOT at?





	Not-So-Lucky Shot

**Author's Note:**

> A prompt fill for plotdesigner on tumblr, incorporating both "The Organization as new Nobodies" and "Luxord as Ansem the Wise's son." (The second being one of my absolute favorite headcanons :P) You can find me on tumblr as "queenofbaws," and my inbox is always open!

The sound of thunder roiled above him or below him or somewhere in his head–it was impossible to tell the difference. Each new crash made his body throb like a rotting tooth, his bones reverberating. Still, it took the first few icy drips of rain to well and truly wake him, rousing him from the fugue with a startled, shuddering breath. 

His vision was blurred as he opened his eyes, making the world around him seem as though it were constructed from nothing but reflections; the pounding in his head grew worse by the moment. 

A low, unflattering noise escaped him, forced out of his mouth by the exertion of sitting upright. “Ah. It’s finally happened.” He squeezed his eyes shut tightly and tentatively pressed a palm to his temple. “I’ve gone and died. Wonderful. Marvelous. What timing.”

Under his other hand, the concrete was cold and wet. The rain was doing a good enough job of bringing him back to his senses, even if those senses _were_ a muddled mess of mixed signals. Through the slits of his eyes, he tried to get a better read of his surroundings. It didn’t help. Everything was dark, everything was wet, and each lightning strike only served to throw the world into harsh contrast. 

Scowling, he reached up just long enough to wipe the rain from his face and rake his fingers back through his hair. He was already soaked through to the bone, making some distant part of him wonder just how _long_ he’d been lying there on the ground. He supposed it didn’t much matter–when you were dead, _nothing_ much mattered. For a long while, he tried to recall what he’d done to go and get himself killed. Had it been something to do with heights? No, that didn’t seem right. Had there been an attack? No, no…Father always kept the Castle so well guarded. Had he eaten something off? That one felt more likely, but the thought wasn’t accompanied by any surge of recognition.

Regardless, it was a shit hand, death. Colder than he had expected to be, when finally he shuffled off the mortal coil. Darker, too.

He eased himself to his feet, cursing the weakness in his legs. His muscles felt like gelatin, wobbling and shaking in the wind. Another peal of thunder tore through the air overhead and–

Suddenly he was on the ground again, flat on his back. 

Whatever had hit him had _hurt_. He turned quickly enough to make himself dizzy, his right hand already reflexively pressed to the injury on his left shoulder. Were you supposed to _hurt_ like that when you were already dead?! He peeled his hand away with cautious dread, yelling out at what he saw.

Through the fabric of his shirt, he could see where his skin had been torn, ripped open by some small, crystalline projectile. Its shape was familiar, ringing true somewhere in the back of his head, but that wasn’t what troubled him. 

No, what troubled him was the lack of blood. There wasn’t a _drop_ of it anywhere; instead, a peculiar black tendril of smoke lazily wafted up from his skin, dissipating into the damp air around him. He’d seen a great many oddities in his time, but this? Not one of them.

Almost fearfully, he plucked the shard from his skin, watching in quiet terror as his skin began to knit itself back together. “Wh-what?” he asked the air, voice swallowed whole by another thunderclap. 

“Well, well, well…looky here! Another newbie crawling their way through the mud.”

His brain was still so tired, so cold, so _numb_ from whatever had happened before he woke up that it took him a moment to recognize the voice. His eyes flit to the projectile in his palm, and then it all snapped into place like a rubber band that had been pulled too tightly around his head. “ _Braig?”_ The fear in his voice was gone, replaced by wonder. 

A flash of lightning revealed a figure standing before him, hood drawn and face hidden. There was something pointed directly at him, though, sending a pang of warning pain running down his arm from where he’d been struck earlier. “Eh, eh, eh…that’s not how it works. First, you’re gonna tell me who the hell _you_ are, pal-y. Chitchat later.”

More out of spite than actual concern, he lifted his hands to either side of his head as he sat up once more. “Look…I know it _appears_ I’m bulletproof, but please, I would _truly_ appreciate it if you could refrain from shooting me.” And then, as an afterthought, “ _Again_.”

He saw the figure go rigid with recognition. Then the hood was off, the weapon tucked away, a hand outstretched to him. “No _way_.” There was laughter in Braig’s voice, and as he helped him to his feet, he realized there was a new _strength_ to him, too. Braig had always been the scrawniest of the Castle guards, but now it felt as though he were hiding steel cables underneath his cloak. It felt almost as though Braig could snap his arm, if he so chose. “No. Freaking. Way.” With his hood off, he could see the face more clearly, and recognized the wide grin straightaway. “I gotta hand it to you, Princey. Did _not_ expect to see _your_ scraggly ass show up.”

Scowling at the nickname, he straightened his clothes out as best he could in their sopping state. “I don’t suppose you’re going to _explain_ what’s going on here?” 

“Nah, of _course_ not! That shit isn’t in my job description.” Braig elbowed him jovially, his smirk growing more pointed. “What I _can_ do, Your Highness, is take you to talk to Management. I’m sure _they’d_ be happy to answer _all_ your questions. _Real_ happy, in fact–I don’t think _any_ o’ us expected Ansem Jr. to show his handsome mug around these parts.” Still snickering, he gestured toward the darkness. “Follow me, my good sir.”

He stared after him for a moment, brow creasing as his stomach filled with leaden dread. “ _Management?”_ he asked, fighting the urge to groan aloud. “Oh, I am much, _much_ too sober for this.” All the same, he followed.

 


End file.
